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lUi POEM, 



PRONOUNCED AT NEW HAVEN, 



BEFORE THE 



SOCIETY OF PHI BETA KAPPA 



AUGUST 2 0, 1839. 



BY GRENVILLE MELLEN 



PUBLISHED AT THE REQUEST OF THE SOCIETY. 



NEW HAVEN: 

PRINTED BY B. L. HAMLEN, 

1839. 






^ 



\^' OUR YEARS. 



I. 

Tell me, ye tireless wanderers of all lands, 

Whose feet, in far and ceaseless journeying, 

Have press'd the thousand thresholds of the earth — 

Great cities — peopled entrances to tombs ! — 

Ye men without a home ! whose pilgrimage 

Has been on mount and sea, from morning time 

Of your bright days, until the cloudy years 

Gathered about your pathway, and made dim 

What once seem'd radiant and beautiful — 

Or, till, the circle of your journey done. 

There seem'd no region waiting for your eye — 

No soil untrodden by your sandal shoon — 

Tell me, if in the climates ye have walk'd, 

Beneath the frozen and the burning sun, 

Link'd in the great procession, ye have seen 

Aught pass, in its untold vicissitudes, 

Bound with the blooming or decaying year, 

That may hold measure with this deathless mind! 

This thing intangible — yet felt, and seen, 

As charter'd with some power beyond the stars, 

That words may tell not — power whose lineage 

Speaks of Infinity ! — Have ye on tower, 

The tallest that the earth has heav'd to cloud 

That rests upon its pinnacle, seen aught 

That can o'ertop the Intellect, or soar 

Beyond the noble highway that it treads 

On its great marches ! — Have ye heard of men, 

Whose mould was braver, [but who had not wings 



To tell you of their country among spheres 
Whose hist'ry has no record mid the world — ] 
Than is this image of your fellow, cast 
By Him who fashion'd it, on every shore, 
To tell the story of a soul to all 
• This lost and listening Nature! 

Have ye heard 
A larger lesson from the mount and sea, 
And banded music of the firmament. 
Than this which spirit to the spirit tells, 
When the head founts are stricken, and the stream 
Is swelling with the first Divinity 
That stirr'd creation's waters ! Pass we — 
We who would hold a converse with our years — 
Into that chamber of our mystery, 
Whose portal is to all unbarr'd by Time. 

II. 

I am not what I was. I feel these years 

Have done sad office for me — and that Time, 

Which I had hop'd might fling around the path 

On which I ventur'd, something of that light 

That cheers life like a halo — has but cast 

A sickly shadow o'er my pilgrimage, 

And made thus far what I had dream'd might be 

A course for men to point at and admire. 

Only an upward strife of weariness — 

No struggle with dark Destiny — but toil, 

In which I've given no lesson to the world 

Of that high toleration which puts crown 

On Virtue in her trial ; because here 

I've pour'd my spirit oft in dull complaint. 

That should have striv'n for mastery ! — I see 

Through the pale vista of my memory. 

What once I was, compar'd with what I am ! 

I was once buoyant — and my footstep rose 



To something strong within me. — I gave voice, 

As in uplifting music, to high thoughts 

That spoke of a high nature — that should rise, 

So it were true to Him who gave it helm, 

Onward — in mighty marchings, to the skies. 

Or, were it faithless, downward to the dust 

Our graves are made of ! — I was certain, then, 

There was no power could lure my eye from Heaven — 

Or that a cloud upon the things of earth 

Gould come — than midnight quicker — and more deep ! 

But I have found my reason was a child. 

Without a master — a mere wanderer — 

Untaught — and leaving nothing — till my days 

Brought something that reprov'd me as it pass'd — 

A stern, rebuking spirit — whose dark wings. 

Heavy with sorrow, swept but slowly by, 

And held me in long shadow — ^like a night ! 

III. 

'Tis not mine to forget. Yet can I not 
Remember what I would — or what were well ! 
Mem'ry plays tyrant with me — ^by a wand 
I cannot master. I may not forget 
My visitations, that have shadow'd me 
Like an eclipse — ^until my tortur'd heart 
Was weaken'd like a child's — and like a child's 
Scarce knew its duty in its feebleness ! 
Forgetfulness of sorrow is not mine — 
But on me rests remembrance like a ban — 
Yet, like the flash that plays upon the cloud, 
In the night-season, mem'ry will unveil. 
Though for a moment, some dim passages 
Of my pass'd, pall'd existence. I can see, 
As in a dream, how life was when I sprang 
Into its highway, for the agony 
And strain of high contention. I can see, 



Beyond a vision's clearness, how I went, 

Cheer'd as the lark is, to the upper sky, 

By the unbarring morning — so by shouts 

Of men — as they broke round me, in 'my morn ! 

Life was a panorama of high hope — 

A prospect of high travel — and great fame ! 

I saw upon the future painted naught 
That look'd like frowns upon repelling brows, 
But only hands that seem'd to beckon on. 
In a still, strange temptation, that my eye 
Grew mad with, till the colors of this Earth 
Took hue like those of Heaven — and I forgot 
It was the destiny of one to fade — 
And that my love was giv'n to ! — But my years, 
Here, too, brought knowledge — in that company 
Of sadness and repentance, whose dim train 
Sweeps on so with experience, that they seem 
Like manacled and cowl'd captives, at the car 
Of some unmov'd and stayless conqueror ! 

M, aA, ^ ^ ^ 

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And now how gaze I on that memory 
Of that first page I turn'd for lessons here ! 
My prayer is to forget that dreamy past — 
And reckless of the present, to look on 
And upward, with a better constancy, 
And holier aspiration — till rebuke 
Is merg'd in mercy — and I feel that clouds 
Are bending to receive me, like great wings — 
To waft me to the mighty tabernacle 
That they are round about ! — 

IV. 

O ! could I feel 
That I within were so illuminate 
By some great revelation, as to speak 



Unfailing as an oracle of mine 

And the throng'd spirits round me — and thus tell 

All that we ask for of both mysteries. 

This mingled and deep mystery of Life — 

And that still deeper one — the dream of Death — 

I were thrice blest, for then no longer mine 

Were this unending inquest of my soul, 

That tries my dull day like some weary voice. 

And racks my sleepless pillow ! What of Earth, 

To fill the measure of my happiness, 

May I ask more ? What tend I to — and where, 

When the great curtain falls, that shrouds us here, 

And I commence that spirit-pilgrimage 

To the untravel'd country, from whose bourne 

We come not back ! Why is the beautiful. 

Upon whose bloom I've ponder'd, till my eye, 

I fear'd me, was unfaithful — and sent sights 

Up to my cheated brain, that earth knew not, 

Destin'd so soon, and sadly too, to fade. 

And find that common brotherhood of dust 

Which mantles all we cherish ! Why go down 

Into those silent chambers, whose dark walls 

Are made of blackness — ^and enclose the worm, 

In his long feast and festival, great hearts 

And noble, whose first glory was to ring, 

Amid those they made better, that fine peal 

Of virtuous joy that animates our years ! 

V. 

But light is not within me. I but feel 

I want that radiance only God can give. 

And that desert is nothing. I but feel 

That I am chang'd — and that all earth is chang'd. 

I am a beggar for that better land — 

And in my poverty I feel that mine 

Has been the folly and perchance the crime, 



8 

That made me poor and penitent. That mine 

Plas been the making of the madness all 

That first reduc'd, then kept my spirit down 

Among the faults and frailties of the earth — 

When, had it essay'd its angelic wings, 

And made the empyrean its high hope — 

And shot into the blue — and o'er the sky, 

In its far questioning — and ask'd for God, 

Where it but stoop'd with Man — ^it had awoke 

E'en in its morning, to a cloudless land 

And to a heavenly knowledge ! — the deep things 

That bear no shadow in Eternity, 

But which, when toiPd for through the night of Time, 

By the soul grov'ling downward, ne'er unveil 

Aught of their brightness — but like those deep books. 

Told of by holy men, whose pages sleep, 

SeaPd in the heaven of heavens, remain in clouds 

Until the spirit passes the great bound 

That bars Man to Mortality — and lifts 

His brow, 'mid lights that fade not — and 'mid sounds 

Of that undying Music he has dreamt 

Before, but heard not — the great choruses 

Whose praise is everlasting ! 

VI. 

O ! if mine 
Were to mount upward upon vasty wings. 
Like the strong eagle — ^and into the sun 
Sail with unflinching eye — if it were mine 
To walk forth on the winds, till every land 
Was spann'd by my quick knowledge — who should ask 
Where then my spirit center'd ! But I bow 
In this weak poverty of power — I want 
The pinion to sway upward — the deep orb 
That knows not of extinguishment, 'mid lights 
That have no fading written on their brow — 



But gathers a new radiance from the fount 

Of splendor that it opens on its march 

Into the furthest deep. — I yet would feel 

How much I have surrender'd of great gems, 

That make the undying treasury of the world. 

For the poor baubles that but gild a day, 

And lend a sorry lustre to an Earth, 

Whose diamonds press our coffins ! — I would feel 

What lessons have been utter'd, as they pass'd, 

By pomp and funerals, on their gaudy way 

Unto their common boundary — the tomb I 

VII. 

I feel that change rides over, like a wheel 

Of some great victor-car above a world. 

The surface of all things that are unveiPd 

Before our rushing years ! — They all bow down. 

Men change, and manners, dreams, and hopes, and fears- 

What yesterday was hope, to-day is fear — 

What then we pray'd for as the worshipper 

Prays at the shrine of his idolatry. 

We now adjure, as at his altar-place 

Does the exorcist, when he calls on powers 

Of all the elements to marshal him. 

A shadow gathers on the brow of Earth — 

Love turns to Hate — and Beauty to Decay. 

Woman, that was made for the glorious blue. 

To tread its golden floor — as they, whose wings 

Tell their fine genealogy — no more 

Sweeps round us like the angel that she was, 

Ere Sin lower'd o'er the garden of the World, 

And Man found out his weakness — and his grave ! 

VIII. 

And why comes over me this night of clouds ! 
Whence comes this wand and necromance of change ! 



10 

And aye without renewal ! Why knows not 

This shadow a to-morrow — ^and a hght 

Born of its darkness, Hke the morning rays 

That break on hues of Tartarus ? Why comes 

No youth upon our spirits, or our hearts, 

As it comes o'er all Nature and its flowers, 

To bring us back the glory we once thought 

Might easily be ours — if hopes and prayers 

Found aught responsive in the things of earth ! 

I ask — but find no answer ! To deep prayer 

Comes but a deeper echo. Like no sound 

To satisfy, but sadden — as it swells 

Prom the deserted bosom which it fills — 

The echo of a spirit that has seen 

Death and Decay pass over it — ^and Change 

Write Night and Silence on its proudest things ! 

The echo of a Heart that rose in pride, 

Like a strong Temple — and was bow'd — a Tomb 

IX. 

Why is our Fate thus written ! Why is mine 
To hear this hollow murmur, that comes back 
No answer, still, but echo — as from grave 
That tells but of mortality — and gives 
Nothing of what it ask'd for ! — Why is mine 
To see the past fade in a bitter smile. 
And frowns fall o'er the future — veiling it. 
As storms do pathways of the traveler, 
Making his noontide murkiest, oft, where morn 
Shone with the bravest promise. Why am I 
What 1 too well feel I am doom'd to be — 
The being of an Ordering, whose days 
Are saturate of change ! Why do I feel 
These shadowy intimations of a land, 
And of a life, that have no semblance here ! 
Why do I pray this mystery of dreams - 



11 

May be unriddled, I once fear'd to meet 

On my lone pillow, as some Christless power ! 

Why ask for Death — whose thought and lineament 

I fled from yesterday, as from that realm 

Whose mention is unholy ! — and whose light 

Is but that lurid lustre, that warms not, 

But only terrifies the soul it veils ! — 

X. 

Our passions are unruly. I have found 

My spirit warm'd within me, as new fires 

Kindle the central burning of the mount 

To a new flame, until the crater flares 

Up to the sky, 'neath which it rose before, 

Serene and silent ! I am liker now 

To the volcano, than I was when life 

Stirr'd its young fires within me — and my hope 

Went hand in hand with Holiness. Yet naught 

Have I grown chary of my reverence 

For God and Virtue — but ambition now 

Marshals on lowlier paths — until I feel 

I've forfeited — at times — that heritage 

To which I was drawn upward in my morn ! 

And now, to fall, and on my quivering knees 

Ask for reception back into the sky, 

From which I've turn'd thus madly, is the thought 

That racks me like a night-fiend ! — 

I would go 
Into a dedication of myself 
To One whose service should have been to me. 
Through all these years I water'd with my tears, 
The earth I trod on — my reward and praise, 
And my exceeding glory. I would be, 
What now shall make this residue of days 
All that they were not — yet what I had dream'd 
They might be, though my spirit was unchang'd, 



12 

And my heart shackled by the bolts and chains 

Of an unholy nature. — ^I would be 

What men may point to, as some better thing 

Than can be shouted on to recompense 

For his best earthly trial — and therewith 

Bow in a pale content. Aye — something more 

Than can find in the strong voice of a world, 

The tempest-gale to waft him to his hope 

Over these troubled waters. — Something more 

Than can bow down before the shrine he spurn'd 

When he walk'd prayerfully — and his young heart 

Went on and upward — cheer'd alternately 

By homage it saw paid to Virtue, and 

The Faith it had in Heaven — ere there fell 

One bolt about the pathway, along which 

I breasted my young way, as if the skies 

Might be commanded, and its countless fires 

Kindle about me as I bade ! — All this 

I would be, with the prayer and tear that pledge 

The heart's strong enterprise — in the lone watch 

Of the still night — when spirits are abroad, 

And stir us to great purposes. — All this 

I imprecate upon my pillow, till 

I feel how low the earth is, as it sweeps 

Through my pale vision — ^and how far the Heaven 

And all its immortalities, above 

My best imaginings, while this dull dust 

Clings to its martyr fame. I bury me 

In my wet pillow — and while yet I weep, 

I feel reclaim'd by sorrow — and would go 

Anew into the world — so I might there 

Walk as the creature of another — girt 

With Virtue as a crown — and in the robe 

Should mark me as of that great company 

Whose armor is eternal ! 



13 



XI. 



But we sleep ! 
How much of this our voyage to those pale spheres, 
Is made up of our dreams ! — How much of Life, 
That shall find repetition in the sky, 
If it be good and beautiful — or down, 
Deeper than mines are, in a midnight realm, 
If it be curs'd and black — is borne on wings 
Whose swoop we hear not, and whose shadow falls 
On the insensate only ! O, how much 
Treads to a music that our pillows know — 
And only they — deeper than sound of sea. 
When it comes upward from its fathomless 
And great caves — where eternity seems shrin'd — 
Or than the harmony of all the spheres ! 

But what then are our Dreams ? What is the tale 
And language that they utter ? 'Tis the voice 
And anthem of Immensity — pour'd out. 
Deeper than all the voices of the seas, 
Or the great empyrean, when the storms 
Are trampling from their far home in the clouds. 
And Nature has flung out her harmonies. 
Waking through all hke one vast instrument ! 
Voice of the night-watches ! It is a voice 
The things of earth but imitate — a sound 
That only angels choir — when from the stars 
They stoop above the worlds that under them 
Roll their large journey, with undying eyes — 
To light them onward — as white messengers ! 

XII. 

Again, how little of this dream we sing 
Is on our pillows ! We go forth to Life, 
And half the round we walk is but a dream ! 



14 

The Joy that makes a laughter of our days, 
When scarce the cradle's rocking has pass'd by, 
And left our brain to boyhood, is a dream ! 
The Beauty that makes Youth so beautiful, 
And so impassionates our bounding years. 
Sending the quick blood from the fountain heart 
Through all the streams that center in that home. 
Is but a vision — and the angel she 
That gives it glory, and that golden light 
Which lace the clouds that waft us, what is she. 
But one made like us — veil'd by her white wings ! 
The Love that lifts us, till we feel all flowers 
Is the dim earth we walk — and all perfume 
The very air that poisons us — the winds 
That make us pale, and sicken — till the bowers 
We built for those we worship, become graves 
For them and us — what is it but a Dream, 
Swifter than wings, or clouds which water them, 
As they ride down the mist ! 

XIII. 

The eagle bird 
That walks the mighty pathway of those clouds. 
Treads to a loftier music than is ours. 
E'en when we move to that which marshals us 
In Life's great mountain passes ! — the highways 
Throng'd by the crown'd and strong. The music there, 
To the bold bird, is as from mightier spheres, 
Beyond poor Earth's attraction ! He mounts up, 
And hears the everlasting anthem, as it pours 
From trumps that lose not their brave harmony 
As he goes onward — but which gathers song. 
The deeper he makes wake into the blue ! 
No dream is on his pinion as he flies — 
He hears its swoop and rustling as he mounts. 
And lights his diamond eye with a new blaze 



15 

As swells his tireless journey. But on Man 
How soon a palsy settles like a night, 
Bowing his sturdiest wing ! It is not Love, 
Beauty — nor Youth — Ambition — Glory — Fame — 
Can keep it to its motion. It will down, 
As if some power in Earth's central grave 
Drew to some destination of Decay 
That knew not of resistance or appeal ! 

XIV. 



'Tis all a dream ! — We gather to the course 

Where man starts forth for triumph — or his tomb ! 

We spring into the tussle — and the sweat 

Of base contention bathes us like a rain ,* 

Our hair grows lank and heavy with the wet, 

And our blood hot and hasty. We hear sounds 

From broad-mouth'd trumpets in great jubilee. 

And voices that shout '' onward !" — There's a roar, 

Sterner than that which tramples from the sea, 

That swells with victory. There are canopies 

Of banners that uplift us, as the pens 

Of an archangel ! And the ocean call 

Of multitude to multitude is in our ear 

Like a command. We hear it go, as oft 

We hear the giant thunder, as it bounds 

From peak to parapet of the great hills — 

List'ning with half shut lips, and frighten 'd face, 

Pallid at revelations so undreamt 

And unimagin'd. We hear men proclaim 

Our spirits worthy of all earth can give — 

Forms fashion'd for the robes of royalty — 

Our hands made for the sceptre — and our brows 

Pil'd for those crowns that radiate with light 

Men worship more than Yirtue. We believe. 

We bow — and question nothing. But we frown 

On him that pales at these strong trumpetings, 



16 

And thinks Truth merg'd in Adulation ! O ! 

How valueless seems Friendship, when the voice 

Of Flattery is round us ! — Now, like sound 

Of low wind heard at midnight — when the world 

Seems hst'ning to its Music — so unstirr'd 

Are sea — and mount — and city ! Now, like voice 

Of that wind when it heralds the strong storm, 

And shouts in dark delight, as on its path 

It leads the cloud and tempest ! Ah! how mean — 

How far these voices ! heeded not, nor heard 

Beside a throng'd world's shouting — surging on. 

And drowning in the uproar of its roll 

Sounds that might save us, were our ears unbarr'd 

To melodies of Heaven ! As those lone streams 

That in their mellow cadences might soothe 

Th' unquiet spirit of the wanderer. 

Seeking beside still waters for the rest 

He finds not 'mid the currents of the world. 

Are heard not, near the great Niagaras 

That thunder and leap by them ! They are lost 

In the fierce torrent that defies all arms 

But the Almighty one that fashion'd it, 

To stay its monarch footsteps. 

XV. 

But my Years 
As they were m my childhood ! Ah ! 'tis there 
My spirit centers with a constancy 
That shames all other — and a memory 
That may not be forgotten ! — My green years ! 
When all I trod on seem'd a bed of bloom. 
And all that wav'd around me seem'd but flowers 
Broad as the shadowy trees — all gathering 
And giving odor. When the cricket's cry 
Came to my early pillow like a song. 
Cheering and lulling childhood. When my dreams 



17 

Were all a part of that low harmony 
Love pours about the couch o'er which it prays 
In whispers and in tears ! — When I laid down 
And woke in gratitude ! to leap with life 
And joy both ringing round my glancing feet 
And echoing in my young laughter. When 
My questionings were only about things 
Whose magnitude and beauty I beheld, 
With wonder — as I now behold the world, 
And nothing about Man ! — When I look'd on 
His handiwork, that was but vanity, 
And ask'd a child's vain questions at the knees 
Of those that are his oracles. — When all 
I would imriddle was why graves were made — 
Not where we tended ! — and philosophy 
That dealt but with the earthiest things of earth, 
Seem'd most consummate to my childlike soul! 
Years when I saunter'd lazily to school — 
With laden satchel, but an empty brain — 
And that low, meanless music that I troU'd 
By city walk, or by the cool green lane 
Where old trees rustled, and the swooping bird 
Told of a noble freedom 'mid the hills, 
Was music still that carried in its hum 
All that I thought was happiness ! — And now, 
How faithless feels my spirit as I call 
Those spectres of the past out of the clouds, 
The far-off clouds that are their sepulchres, 
And see upon their brows, as on some scroll 
Each bore and held before me — " We were once 
No phantoms, but embodyings of all 
You knew or dreamt of — all you thought was well 
To know or care for, as with careless foot 
You trod the morning pathway of your days. 
And call'd us your companions !" — I cannot 
Believe, as I gaze backwards, that I trod 

3 



18 

Heedless, and thus uncar'd for, the green earth, 

And its rose-tangled avenues, that led 

Up to the noisy highways of the world, 

Where flowers wave never in the multitude, 

But far between — ^and crush'd in the perfume — 

Content — and seeking nothing — but that Joy 

Might lift my pulse forever as it did, 

When first I knew the mercy ! — ^and that still 

I might undying home's blest music find, 

And like to-day, to-morrow ! — I cannot — 

I cannot, if I would, believe that I 

Am now but a reflection of the past — 

Enlarg'd and lengthen'd — though not perfect made 

In that but sick development which Time 

Gives to the thing it destines to decay — 

And o'er which 'twill laugh loudjy, when it cries 

" Down to the dust you trampled on when pride 

Sat at the helm of the bold ship you launch'd 

On the great waters. — Down to hated earth — 

And mingle with it, ye that thought your feet 

Contaminate, if once they touch 'd a grave, 

In this dim passage through which graves and worms 

Make half the ground beneath them !" — 

Time and Years ! 
The only formers 'neath the hand of God, 
Of all that can take form ! The only lords 
Who go triumphant from the life of things 
Up to their consummation ! — giving all — 
Commanding all — all-taking ! The strong powers 
That rule the crown and cottage — giving each 
Their glory or repose ! — Withouten whom 
Naught can go on to blooming, or become 
The thing it would be, or the light it may. 
Without whom nothiijg of the garniture 
Humanity puts on — the high appendages 
Of a high nature — nothing of the Man 



19 

Conld be led out, and onward to the world 

He may adorn or darken ! — without whom, 

Man would be nothing from the womb to earth. 

Where he must wait for judgment. — Time and Years ! 

Now comes the m^^stery that wearies me ! 

These are the crown'd ones, that with frightful sway 

Point towers to dust, and urge us to the cells 

We must inhabit in it, spite the prayers, 

And tears, and imprecations of a world ! 

Down to the chaos which they led from, now 

They send us back, like tyrants, dungeon-deep — 

Unknowing what appeal is — or the cry 

Of Hope, that has been cheated as it rose, 

Of all it deem'd its heritage. Down ! — down ! 

Rings o'er a race — and powers that herald them 

To earth and what it tells of, scoff them down 

To coffins and the clay men moulder in ! — 

XVI. 

It is not what we are, as what our Years 

May destine to, that tries us. — I look out. 

When birds have folded wing, and man has gone 

To sleep and silence, and I see the skies 

Are eloquent with stars. I think I hear 

That great unceasing music that has roll'd 

From sphere and space — the tribute they have given 

To God, since he commanded light to break, 

And worlds to herald it. I behold — and tears 

Drown my fix'd eyes — for I cannot but weep 

At this immensity, which so defies 

All that our lean philosophy would probe, 

Or dare look into. I see world on world 

In silent, but eternal revolution — new, 

As when earth sprang to ether, and began 

The circle of its wonder — and its praise ! 

There is no change there. But / feel the change 



20 

Most palpable upon me. And the trump 

Within me rings of it ! — and this it is 

That tries me when I see man bow'd to dust 

By generations, while these stars and suns 

March changeless — cloudless — and unknown to years. 

On their illimitable journey ! — Man ! 

Yet he can gaze, unquestion'd by himself, 

On what himself is type of — save in life 

And limitation of that energy. 

Which, as we dream, defiance gives to Time, 

But which will grovel to the conqueror 

Above our ashes, when our spirits long 

Shall have pass'd wand'rers to the elements ! 

XVII. 

How much there is of promise in our Hope — 

How little in our Life ! — Youth is our Hope. 

It bears its lineaments of loveliness. 

As when they are most bright. Its heraldry 

Is blazon'd as strong crest is on some shield 

It looks to as protection — and its pride ! 

It fashions worlds as countless as the stars — 

And with a strange ubiquity, treads all. 

And all inhabits — till breaks in the dream. 

And crush the gilded bubbles ! — promises ! 

They are the princes of our trusting years — 

That whisper to our faith in cadences 

Whose music we withstand not. — But the deed ! 

There comes the sorrow of that royalty ! — 

And Hope's forgotten — as men are, with kings ! 

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How weak are we ! how wise the architect 
Of the entangled system, that yet seems 
Like some vast web to our pale infancy, 
To whose beginning we cannot look back — 
Whose end we must despair of ! — We are dark. 



21 

And not to us a new apocalypse 

Can give that revelation which the sky 

Alone shall open when we're pass'd the bourne ! 

XVIII. 

I have no mem'ry when my spirit first 

Caught its perceptions of the mount and cloud, 

And the great waters — and the tempest roar 

That wakes them to their lashing ; when my eye 

First saw that fearful lustre in the air 

Which Nature robes in, in her poetry ; 

And my ear heard that harmony that treads 

In a victorious music through the world. 

In voices of broad cities — and the storm ! 

I cannot now remember when I woke 

To my first wonder. But 'tis in my heart 

As something I seem'd born to — that no power 

Of earth — and no fatality, could crown 

This human in me with, and the great calls 

That were on all sides waking from a sphere 

That I was new to. But 'twas on me then. 

'Twas nature — though a mystery ! She rais'd 

Her veil from the tall mountains, and the sea — 

She stood like sudden sculpture before one 

Who has dreamt long of Beauty — and I saw 

What I had pray'd to see — the perfect form 

Of chisel'd loveliness — and heard what oft 

In the night time I'd heard, as chants from clouds, 

Yet could repeat not. — It was with me then. 

I saw and heard of glories in the scenes 

That nature now reveal'd, which I had dream'd — 

But song's great masters had beheld unscath'd — 

And my blood bounded as I felt to me 

This story of immensity was told, 

In language whose sublimity was bas'd 

On things so bravely utter'd ! My heart sang 



22 

As though a choir were in me, echoing 

The everlasting harmonies that went 

Up from the ceaseless lips of a vast world ! 

It sang as though responsive to the deep 

And far-voic'd anthems of the elements, 

When they are summoned to their boldest praise ! 

I found my glory was to list the tale 

Told by tumultuous tongue from night and cloud- 

Or from the shouting crag, and swooping wind. 

Oft to the quiv'ring house-top of my home, 

As to lone tower, when shadow had come down 

Like a wide wing along the glooming air, 

Oft did I steal — a sky-enchanted boy, 

To gaze upon the dull and leaden brow 

Of the uplifting tempest — gathering 

Along the mountain-land — in pillar'd clouds ! 

Beautiful in their deep blackness — beautiful 

In their intensity — as trampling bands 

In their gigantic march — like things of life — 

Till I forgot they were the heraldry 

Of the embattled storm — and to the mist 

Shouted in concert ! as if voice of mine 

Were heard or heeded 'mid the bustling pomp 

Of that colossal van ! 

With pallid brow 
Lean'd on my hot hand, shivering with delight, 
And eye that I felt kindling as it gaz'd, 
I star'd into the clouds — unfaltering, 
E'en when the white bolt through the rifted mass 
Dropp'd to the frighted earth ! — and mutt'ring far 
Came the hoarse thunder — like the wakening leap 
Of long imprison'd waters ; then, more near. 
Its crash, as of ten thousand trumpets, blown 
Above an earthquake — or a nation's wail ! 
I listen'd, and I wonder'd, 'mid the boom 
Of these great voices — till, like lions, driven 



23 

Into the forest where they rang'd and roar'd, 
They sank in mad exhaustion — and I heard 
Their billowy base within the sinking cloud — 
And felt there was no music like that call 
Of tempest unto tempest — as it died ! 

XIX. 

'Twas now I felt my new companionship 
With a new Nature — and with Nature's God. 
I trod among the pinnacles of earth — 
And question'd the tall mountains. I could see 
The power with which they all were eloquent, 
And hear it as it spake from its white towers 
Of crag and avalanche — in awful voice ! 
With tongue that never to my unseal'd ear 
Before had echoed. I could hear a sound 
From the far-off horizon of my land, 
Sent from these strong-bas'd ramparts to the sky 
Full both of history and praise ! — It rose 
As clarion call might of the trumpeter 
From city's crowning spire — the citadel 
That lifts its pennon, and proclaims its pride ! 

XX. 

This was the poetry that haunted me 
Like some fierce splendor, that so fills the eye 
That dark turns light with it — and night at last 
Is lost in lustre ! 'Twas a poetry 
That rose from vale and cliff — and wood — and rock- 
Mingling their wide thanksgiving — and each strong 
In the fine chorus that it woke and swell 'd ! 

XXI. 

But the unbounded Ocean ! O, 'twas there 
My spirit wander'd with its freest range 
While yet I was but childlike — and my veins 



24 

Felt but a boyish gladness, as they rose 
Without the pulse of worship that was soon 
To give devotion beauty and a soul. 
I walk'd the ocean shore. I ran — I leapt — 
I smote my hands in ecstacy — and call'd 
Unto the billows with a madd'ning scream, 
That the foam laugh'd at — and lash'd rocks 
On which it broke sent back no echo there, 
To my faint voice, where thunder was the song 
They sounded to for ages ! 

I went out 
With those I reverenc'd, upon the sands, 
When calm was on the waters — and their tune 
Was like a sea-shell's murmuring in the ear, 
In its low undulations. And I ask'd 
What kept this within bounds — and where it fell- 
Into what caverns — as it backward went, 
Like the retreating legions of some king. 
Whose will was a command ? I ask'd again, 
By what great marvel Man could dare to mount, 
And ride upon this element, that seem'd 
Continually to reach, as if in rage 
For something it had not — and in retreat 
Moan'd as for some lost victory ? 

As Years 
Pass'd over me, new thoughts pass'd in. I saw 
With a new adoration, all that rose 
Upon my boyhood's vision — and gaz'd out 
On the triumphant sea, in sun and storm. 
With joy that was a terror ! I gaz'd out 
To see it with a faith, yet with a fear 
I could not tell of, for I had no words 
To whisper of such work ! Yet was there praise 
Deep as that ocean-sea, within my heart, 
Though silence was its utterance ! and yet 
Time brought no sameness here. But as I gaz'd 



25 

From my lone chamber to the sinking verge 
Where sky shut down, and all horizon blent 
With the blue waters, I grew deeper still 
In my inquiry and my wondering. 
There was magnificence — the beautiful 
Leagu'd with the boundless in this spreading sea, 
That mock'd my tireless still, but tension'd eye. 
I gaz'd — and gaz'd — until my wilder 'd sight 
Grew into reverie — but I felt not 
That there could ever come a weariness 
Where such eternal grandeur, like a voice, 

Appeal'd to my idolatry ! 1 dream'd 

That there were bright foundations of the sea — 

Great doors of palaces — and diamond caves, 

And pathways crusted with the heraldry 

Of Nature in her royalty ? — I saw 

How beautiful it was for mighty hearts — 

Fine spirits, that lov'd Virtue and their Land, 

To find such shroud in this mortality 

As that which mantled them amid the gems 

Of this great billowy kingdom ! I look'd down 

As into one throng'd cemetery — where 

Corruption touch'd not the still company — 

But from the midst of undulating hair 

Shone brows of alabaster — and dull eyes. 

Waiting as they had lain for centuries. 

For the strong trumpet of the conqueror ! 

XXII. 

Then with another gladness I sprang forth. 
To mount these reinless coursers of a world. 
As one does to the freedom of the hills 
From the crush' d city. And I felt how broad 
And how triumphant was the liberty 
They told of as they flew ! How full the note 
They sounded in their ever-during bass 

4 



26 

Into the ear of Nature. — In the storm 

An unknown music rose from ringing shrondj 

And shriek of the high mariner, amid 

The shatter'd sail that banded the bent mast — 

And from the flashing deck, where fiery foam 

Danc'd to the howhng winds. In t?ie night time 

I felt exuhance could I grapple close 

With the strong cordage, and look palely down 

Into the boiling chaos of the waves 

And the mad mist, that from the plunging prow 

Leapt to the air like arms ! — I felt that Man 

Was more the pastime of the elements, 

Amid this hallelujah of the deep, 

Yet less a creature than he was on earth ! 

And that his strength upon the mountain sea 

Was but a baby's weakness — though his mind 

Shone like a Pharos 'mid the thundering noise 

And tumbling of the main he walk'd in power ! 

How wonderful did science in the helm 

And compass tell his mastery ! How strong 

Speak in the signal cannon, whose round roar 

Burst through the combing sea ! How beautiful 

Tell in the meteor flag a history 

Pages might not make record of for Man ! 

XXIII. 

'Twas on this strong deck of the leaping bark. 
When winds were rising on the volum'd cloud, 
And moonbeams struggled with the murky night, 
I first grew conscious of the monarch power 
And poetry of Ocean ! — I first saw 
Those footsteps of a mystery which there 
Walk'd the dim chambers, that I knew not of 
Before this great unveiling. — I beheld 
In the white surge that seem'd another Alp, 
Call'd from its grave of waters — ^and the spout 



27 

Springing like some old pillar to the sky, 

The cloudy column of some stricken fane — 

Stern proclamation of a royalty 

That held no question with these things of graves! 

'Twas here I first held converse with a voice 

That first within me like a master spake, 

Calling to great imaginings — a voice 

That sang of Nature crown 'd with majesty, 

Equal'd but by its Goodness. Of a hand 

That knew no guidance but a loftier Will 

Than marshal'd things of mortals. It was mine 

To learn that lesson first in this vast school, 

That did rebuke and cheer me — while it came 

In language naught on earth can imitate — 

Sublime as Heaven — yet boundless as sublime. 

XXIV. 

I seem now to remember that I found 

A spell I had been stranger to, when borne 

On the bold breakers, amid night and storm ! 

Something there mov'd upon the wells within — 

Those head founts, often stirless till we die — 

And woke them into motion deeper down 

Than I had dream'd a life was. I look'd up 

To holier elevations — and beheld 

With new confession, and a clearer eye. 

The power beyond the veil. I pray'd. I wept. 

But with a joy and thankfulness that mine 

Was this gift that inspir'd to finer themes 

And woke to better hopes. My solitude 

Heard of my tribute, and the Holiness 

To which it rose in silence, from that hour 

Return'd a rich reward — like blessed dew 

On flowers that breathe their praise ! — For as I felt 

Those stronger aspirations break within, 

In broader song, and nobler sympathies, 



28 

In deeps before unsounded, I was proud, 
Yet bent in all my pride, in thankfulness, 
That God had given his glories to be seen 
And felt by my poor spirit, amid scenes 
Touch'd with his fierce sublimities, and loud 
With all the bravest music of the world ! 

XXV. 

A change was now upon me. And it came 

With that strange mingling of divinity 

That marks our holiest stirrings. I've not words 

To tell how like it w^as to things above. 

As I have imag'd them — how like to thoughts 

That pay our virtues by their visitings ! 

It was a change of dreams and promises 

I had not dreamt before — though shapes had walk'd 

Beside me cast like angels — and with tones 

Like those that angels whisper. I now saw 

And felt that I was summon'd to a sight 

And sound that had been visions ! — But they pass'd. 

XXVI. 

There was one with me in these changeful days, 
Whose step kept even music with my own. 
And he was of my spirit. I could see 
Something responsive there — and something oft 
Which, though it found no answer in my life, 
Yet found it in my heart. And I could feel, 
As by a revelation, that his years 
Still pictur'd but my own, as they had pass'd 
This morning of their mystery. — We leapt 
The gray hills and the crags in brotherhood 
Of feeling and of passion. We went out 
To listen by the sea to tales we thought 
None others could tell thus — until there grew 
Companionship and oneness that no words 



29 

Can give the shape to which such mingling gave. 

I call'd him brother. We were swept Hke harps 

Of the same tension, by the same glad breeze 

To give hke swell and cadence. He was one 

Whose Hope was like his eye — intent on Heaven ! 

And oft he told me of that blessed sphere, 

And warn'd me from the angel things of earth. 

Or what seem'd angels, with such sorrowing tongue 

I seem'd but listening to an eloquence 

Whose home was of that country which it sang ! 

XXVII. 

One summer day 
When silence brooded on the sweltering sand. 
And a scarce visible breathing curl'd the sea. 
Along the stern of our light bark we lay, 
Cast in the shadow of its flapping sail — 
Drifting in aimless luxury among 
Green rocks and island waters. — He was touch'd 
With a rare paleness — and his marble face 
Was haggard for his years — for he was young — 
But Time had temper'd his unseason'd blood, 
And ic'd it at its home. — He had dream'd dreams. 
And met them as realities — until 
Lines, that were histories, fell on his cheek, 
And his hair whitened like an anchorite's. 

" I tell you that my voice is like to one 

That passes from an oracle. I see hands 

Lifted in imprecation — and hear tones 

That are like dirges from a far-off land. 

And pregnant with the past. O ! if you see, 

Friend of my early days ! upon my brow 

That written, I would tell you — blasted hope — 

A tempest-morning, and the temple scath'd 

Where I had thought glory would light the shrine— 



30 

If you can read in the soul's vestibule 

The warning of the eye — then read a tale 

That tells you of the Heaven and Hell of Love !'^ 

XXVIII. 

He spake as one whose service at the shrine 

Of his pale priesthood had been link'd with all 

Of Life that he held golden. As he ceas'd, 

A flush went o'er the winter of his brow, 

And his convulsive hand fell upon mine 

As if in struggle. I look'd up. A cloud 

Was sailing up the sky — and the far trees 

Shook to the gathering winds along the isles 

They darken'd and embower'd. With asking eye 

I bade him to the riddle that mov'd him 

As some stern memory — ^and that startled him 

From silence even to outcry. — He flung back, 

And gaz'd up at the mast, and pennon flag, 

And then upon the waters, along which 

Our boat now sprang in gladness — while the sail 

RoU'd to the ringing gale. And thus he spake. 

XXIX. 

" I sleep — but 'tis to dream — though I have pray'd 
For that blest spirit of forgetfulness, 
Which comes o'er virtue like a necromance, 
Leaving an infant quiet with the heart. 
And with the Mind oblivion. But my prayer 
Has found no entrance at the gate of God — 
And I dream on. Rest has no change for me. 
And comes not to me with its angel wings. 
Fanning and shadowing, till a dreamy world 
Takes form of what it should be — and we think 
Life yet might be a Vision crown 'd with gold. 
And even yet a weary thing to die ! 
There is no midnight to me. The long bell 



31 

That tells that passage of "recorded time" 

To the insensate watcher, bears to me 

No story of the Future, or the Past — 

But the dull night-chime falls upon my ear, 

As upon Marble — or some sculptur'd thing, 

That rings to, but feels not, the booming sound. 

I know no measure of my days. My mind 

Gives with its silent but unerring voice 

No intimation of that wondrous change. 

That with alternate radiance and gloom 

Walks the great earth and sky — Morn with its bars 

Opening like Mercy on a waking world, 

And Night, with its vast music of the^ stars. 

I gaze upon the bright machinery 

That circulates through space — and as I gaze, 

And listen to the tireless melodies 

That well upon us in a choiring sound, 

As from some mighty fountains in the sky, 

I feel their golden order as they pass. 

And hear their Master's voice. Mount, cloud, and sea. 

Lift up their majesty — and a strong shout 

Leaps from grey crag to the blue waters. All 

Swell the fierce thunder-peal in deep response, 

And tell their glorious history in the storm ! 

XXX. 

I know not years — yet have I liv'd long years. 
And known deep sorrow ; and if beam of Joy 
Have gleam'd across my pathway as I trod 
The valley of my pilgrimage, it seem'd 
As if in mockery — and the lustre fell 
Upon my spirit's front, like the cold light 
Upon the ice mounts of the shining north. 
No radiance has been mine that lit the heart. 
But that which play'd upon its summit — all 
Without or warmth or glory. I have liv'd, 



32 

When Life was but a pastime — and the beat 

Of the quick pulse was like no motion else 

That measures what it governs — but a rush 

Of the ungovern'd waters — that spring forth 

And pass to sea in tumult. On that wave 

Rode the bright spirit of Joy — and every swell 

Of the glad billow lifted, while it bore 

A soul of joyousness ; but sweeping down 

The pathway of sad change, the skies were chang'd. 

And the deep light departed. — It was thus, 

Without a heeded measure of my days 

They pass'd to the great Ocean. I beheld 

No value to them. Like a pendulum 

They swung their weary duty — pattering 

The story of Time's passage — and to-day 

Telling the tale of yesterday — till years 

Pass'd in this nothingness, and I beheld 

Their history on my brow. I heard afar 

Like the old roaring of the ceaseless sea, 

A sound come o'er my ear when I recall'd 

The mem'ry of young Joy — the beautiful — 

The many-voic'd, and holy. I trode back 

The path where I had leapt when pulse was strong, 

And every cadence music — when the sky 

Was but a habitation of bright hearts, 

That beat to melody — and gave the world 

A lustre and a loveliness that none 

Could reason into being — though they dream'd, 

Led by the best philosophy — a light 

That the soul gather'd from simplicity, 

And gaz'd on through this dome of all the stars ! 

And ask you whence this magic on my life, 

That crush'd me like a conqueror — and pal'd 

Lip, cheek, and brow, as though the seal of Death 

Had stamp'd its triumph on them ? — It was Ijove — 

Woman, and Beauty ! All sat thron'd in light 



33 

In one imperial creature — and 'twas mine 
To stand before her footstool — wonder-bow'd 
In madness of idolatry. She was made 
To win and hold the Spirit like a song 
Of blessed spheres, and breathing of its home. 
There was no questioning her sway — it bore 
The heart it hung o'er, like the element, 
All mystery and all power, that lifts a world 
Up to the Heaven which spans it. 

'Mid this hope, 
This triumph-flush that flsish'd along my brain, 
While yet into the fountains of that love — 
The great deep of her eyes, I look'd cis one 
Upon some shrine while dying — she was chang'd! 
And taken to the skies ! Her loveliness 
Pass'd to the sphere it might illuminate — 

And darkness fell around me. 

A cold grave 
Now garner'd all my jewels — and eclipse 
Fell on my spirit — shadowing its disk, 
Until the night seem'd total ! Tears fell not — 
The founts were dried in the hot agony 
That scath'd my stricken soul — and my sunk eyes 
Peer'd with a marble hardness on the world 
That had prov'd false and faded." 

XXXI. 

He was still. 
It was now night — and crag, and. cloud, and star, 
Found echo in the sea. — Our lazy sail 
Swung from the creaking mast — and under us 
Our inconstant faces dallied with the moon. 
He spake as though his struggle had been done, 
For years while he was battling. As though now 
'Twas over with him, while for rivalry 
Great passions held stern warfare in his heart, 

5 



34 

And sear'd and sack'd the land ! It was for him 

Until all time should darken, to point spear, 

And go with helm and breastplate to the war 

In which he'd won good knighthood — though in tears ! 

XXXII. 

And how on me sat this pale history ! 

Did I hear aught like voices in the night. 

Coming and going like warnings ! There were sounds 

That charm'd but could not teach me. I heard not 

In all that tale, to whose intensity 

Wet brow and locks gave witness, one record 

Would lure me back to solitude. I grew strong 

As I heard others' weakness. I grew firm 

To be a victim on the altar-place. 

After the last devotion. And while yet 

I felt I might pass with him to the death, 

Through any noble martyrdom, I breath'd 

A whisper'd word over his streaming brow. 

As our oars cut the shadow of the cliffs. 

'' Friend of my spirit — dream not 'tis set down 

In the eternal Book, that Peace, like wing 

Shall hang above the waters of thy life, 

Making their passage hidden. It is writ 

That strife shall mark thy pilgrimage — and though 

Thou think'st the warfare ended, it knows not 

An end but with the silence of the pulse 

In hearts that leap like thine !" 

Nor did it come, 
Until the train swept to his lowly home. 
And he with the forgetful had lain down 
The burden he had taken for the skies ! 

XXXIII. 

I sat beside his pillow at that time, 

When he was chang'd. I saw that he had read 



35 

On all he could peruse in those dim days — 
The summons for his better pilgrimage, 
And the new armor of that robe-array 
In which he should pass upward. I saw not 
That he was paler, as the unsteady lamp 
Play'd on his sharpen'd face, than when he lay 
Under that moonlight sail, where he foretold 
This sadden'd final of his stricken life. 
One hand was laid in mine — and on his brow 
His other in uncertain weakness stray'd, 
And his wet hair wept over it. He drew 
My arm in silence to his beating side. 
As in those days of young-voic'd confidence 
When with one eye and heart we went afield. 
He gaz'd into my face. 'Twas the still gaze 
Of one on whom new scenes are lifting — one 
Who sees beyond this mining to a realm 
Where Virtue grasps reward surpassing gold. 

XXXIV. 

I sat beside his pillow — a few friends 

Travers'd the room with stealthy steps and slow, 

Looking askance, and sometimes through their tears. 

He beckon'd to be rais'd against the wall, 

Then bent us round him with a prophet's look. 

And told of that to come. 'Twas terrible — 

Yet holier than all pageantry of earth — 

And as he caught a strength from angels round. 

And e'en grew eloquent in dying, all 

Gave but new glory to his lumin'd mind, 

And joy unto his visage. — 

We drew round — 
And thus he breath'd in tones that seem'd a song. 
" I feel my spirit passing. The pale air 
Looks cold and sunless — and dim forms are round 
My beating and hot head. They look hke clouds, 



36 

So faintly are they trac'd — ^yet with the shapes 

Of men who once walk'd with me on the earth. 

My ears are dall — and yet a voice I hear, 

From these white gibbering people, that come round 

My wet and weary pillow. Yes — I know 

That I am passing. I had dreamt^ before, 

How this might be — imist be — but not till now 

This terrible experience was mine 

That tells us dreams are true ! — ^A strange light. 

Colder than twilight mantles up my eye, 

And ominous birds are glancing down the sky. 

With quick and dusky pinions — the grey bat 

Is wheeling over me — and all the earth 

Is fading — fading ! 'Twill be night indeed ! 

For all these habitable things, to me, 

Soon as the veil is dropp'd, will pass away 

And be as those that are not. One great grave 

Will gather over them — and silence brood 

As corpses in old sepulchres— until 

The thrilling trumpet-blast shall scare the dead 

And call the world to judgment. 

Yet think not 
My spirit cowers at these stern prophecies, 
That speak thus of my surhmons. I heed all. 
I'm ready. And if not with Cassar's pride 
I hug my tottering body in a robe, 
And fall as kings do — I can yet enwrap 
Myself in garments nobler than the earth's, 
And pass in Hope's bright raiment to the clouds ! 
I feel strong in my great weakness. Earth 
Takes nothing from the armament within 
With which Faith girds us like a fortress. Here 
The soul sits in its Kremlin, while the sound 
And sight of human conflict dull and swim 
On the pall'd vision. It but seems to grasp 
With a renew'd retention all that Hope 
Paints brighter as we fail ! 



37 

Nay — nay — weep not ! 
Tears are no consolation. I must go — 
They cannot hold me back. The fiat's pass'd — 
And Death inexorable. He knows not tears ! 
But prayer He cowers at — and to Hope He pales. 
For they are 'jond His empire ! O, weep not — 
Save for yourselves, while to the beck of Time 
Ye give that heed ye madly do deny 
Unto the deep Eternity ! Weep not. 
Or only for yourselves — for I can see 
What ye cannot, that in your pilgrimage 
Demands a sigh and sobbing. We have been 
Sad in our duties and our offices — 
Not won reward — or claim to that regard 
Which reckless offspring tortures from the heart 
It has but wrung and broken. O ! but hear 
A warning that is prayer. But turn within 
To the last eloquence whose awful tones 
Are voic'd like thunder from the arching skies — 
Far inward — and that naught of Earth can still !" 

XXXV. 

His words died — and he died ! — Is it for man 

To boast of his to-morrows — and his years 

Seem but to-morrows, when his fiercer sun 

Has mounted higher — and a quicker wheel 

Bears his loud chariot onward ! Is it his 

To be prophetic from the rosy past, 

And sing of flowers and summers — as if all 

Should be a halo round him, till the cloud 

That is a night, thickens about his way. 

And his thin hands grope white and fearfully 

Adown the valley ! — I had seen the past 

Telling me golden story — and I thought 

The present was not faithful to the past — 

And something dimm'd the future. — Yet I walk'd 



38 

As one whose path bore roses — and whose feet 
Were tangled in the beauty of the bloom ! 

XXXVI. 

Nolo I hear better lessons in the cry 
Of raven and the cricket, when the night 
Is stooping with the storm about my door. 
Than I have ever thought was borne from bards 
'Neath fretted roof — from flashing instrument — 
Though holy was the music that they pour'd 
Of anthem and loud praises ! For the cry 
Of the night-bird and insect seem to bear 
Something of supplication in the tone, 
That breaks from thankfulness — and I believe 
They feel there is compassion over them 
That wakes their passing harmony — and tunes 

Their story and rebuke ! Yet it is not 

This language that is nobler than the song 
Of Man, when he ascribes it 'bove the stars. 
And not to base things of the earth, his feet 
Stumble amid and trample. — It is not 
That any other brow can lift with Man's, 
When it is warm and radiant with the fire 
Of his great nature — or a voice go up 
Into the Courts of God, like that of him 
He has put helm and crown on — so it rise 
In strains that angels harbinger unsham'd 
Into the dome they bow in and adore ! 
Let him but lift the spirit with his song, 
And move his lips in hallow'd minstrelsy. 
Then will no sound of earth pour on his ear 
The lesson he now gathers from its cries. 

XXXVII. 

Now seem'd the roundure of my days. I trod 
By mountain-side or market-place alike, 



39 

The creature not of silence, or of tears — 
Bat one who felt the circle of his life 
Fashion'd and finish'd — and the register 
Set in th' eternal books by the white hand 
Of the accounting angel. — I went forth 
As though a new beginner among men, 
With whom I'd gone thus far into the West 
And setting of my time. — Yet I was not 
As one the world calls stranger. I had bow'd, 
But felt my being better while rebuk'd. 
I saw another Nature casting off 
The weaker first habiliments, that wrapp'd 
My spirit in its morning. I beheld 
What it could mount to — and the destiny 
Which it would claim, as of the heritage 
Told by our fathers, who had seen the sky. 

XXXVIII. 

Thus has the spirit, which, before that sky 
Was open'd to me in these visitings, 
Would have pass'd onward with the lesser things 
Of earth, now pass'd me 'mid its greatest. Thus 
Have I seen leaping seaward, like great ships. 
Great hearts and lordly natures. I have seen. 
As I saw not before the sun went in. 
What is the ocean that they struggle with, 
And what the large eventment of the voyage ! 
And, as I felt the freight, and saw the sea, 
I thought what was the vessel — and the port 
For which she set her compass and the helm. 

XXXIX. 

Well may I say I am not what I was. 
And well may all men say it. I know not 
That I bear better warrant for the land 
That lifts beyond this flood. I fear the seal 



40 

That bears the signet of admission there, 
May oft have taken but indignity 
In this sad passage. Yet the spirit here, 
As to my own unveil'd, has taken front, 
And given that illustration that no Power 
Save one can take and give. — I have look'd on 
Things as a school — and as but scholars, men — 
Receiving lessons now — now rendering. 
And acting, in strange mask and drapery, 
A part we reck not, till we have been told 
Life's but a drama-act— and this the stage ! 

XL. 

And why this riddle ? I had ponder'd Man, 

Before I had the turf-spot he must fill. 

But not so ponder'd. There had been no thought 

About his Nature, as about the front 

He bore in Nature. Nothing of the march 

He might make on in victories of Mind, 

As of the sword he wielded — or the tone ! 

I saw not that in him to make me still, 

As I now see it — I had follow 'd him 

Oft in his various journeyings, fancy-led. 

Until my wilder'd spirit, pass'd within, 

Seem'd lost in lab'ririth of its questioning ! 

XLI. 

Thus did I gaze upon him, ere I saw 
What Man had of that heirship to the home 
That angels walk — which, would he aye proclaim, 
As he might ever, with the voice and hand. 
Would make his fellows but a holy band. 
And the world Eden. It was ere I saw 
What he might reach to — that his better strength 
Was link'd with Virtue — and that Virtue yet 
Shone hke a tower-light in him 'mid the night 



41 

And storm-rocks of his nature — that he yet 
Might claim the Mercy that was offered him — 
From founts, too, that 'twas glory large to win. 
Beyond all glory from all founts that Man 
Has open'd on his way to Fame — and Graves ! 
But Man is not alone — nor stands alone 
In all these scenic mysteries we call 
From the great empirage within. Alone ! 
It is a weary v/ord — of weary sound, 
That has no echo. It gives back to him 
No answer, in its blank significance ! 

XLII. 

How beautiful this thought, that sympathy 

Walks all creation's round ! How beautiful 

That soul, like all we see, is voic'd for soul, 

That is its echo — and that echo still 

Lives in one repetition, that fails not, 

Till Time dies in the vacuum of the tomb ! 

How beautiful it is, that wander on 

Till his foot falters on the dim abyss 

That must receive him, there can never come 

The time when Man meets not response within 

Of something from its somewhere ! I can see 

The union that I feel, and hear confess'd. 

And every sense is wed .to harmony ! 

There is a marriage of all things create. 

And each still finds its likeness through the world ! 

XLIII. 

Thus Man is not alone. For let him forth. 
As shrinking and as wearied as he will, 
To wander, cowl'd, the deserts and old isles, 
There yet will be an echo to his cry — 
Be it in jubilee — or moan — or prayer — 
He cannot 'scape the fellowship that comes 

6 



42 

Of mem'ry, link'd so with a thousand dayS; 
That will be round us, in a thicker band, 
The more we would fly from them. — He cannot 
Forget the fount — the childhood — and the hearth — 
His home, and hills — ^the magic of his Love — 
His first, perhaps his only passion — Love 
That made him half the madman he has seem'd, 
Yet gave him all the light by which he trod ! 
Affection will live with him. The young song 
That warbled on young lips, when all he spake 
Was passionate with music, and that song 
From her was answer to him every where, 
Will aye ring through that deeper ear within, 
And people all around him. It is writ 
That Woman shall illuminate his path — 
The vision of his footsteps — ^and the guide. 
Bloom will wait on her — and the leaves she flings 
As she glides onward, from her orient store, 
Will fall like garlands round his weary head, 
And scatter, like a radiance, at his feet ! 

XLIV. 

True thoughts are born of Nature. Those that rise 

Within the spirit, when its only hope 

Is to turn inward to the wilderness 

Itself has made of its first glory — those 

Are not the thoughts that touch mortality. 

And make us question of another sphere — 

But reveries, that take no name of thought 

Nor wear the title — ^but the cloudy dreams 

That come to the dull dotard, in the dim 

And duller home of his inanity. 

As to a Socrates. Yes ! thoughts that now 

Rise round me from these battlements of hills — 

These vales, and waters, and these mountain crags 

Of the fierce eagle ! These are godlike thoughts 



43 

That Nature summons from the heights and depths 

Of the Divine within us. — I can see 

In yonder bird that circles over me, 

With his wide-saiUng pens, and bended beak, 

And the upreaching glory of his glance, 

A type of the untaught imaginings 

That guide great natures, and lure on to spheres 

Where there come never clouds or gatherings 

To tell th' impureness of the element 

In which they form and fade. If we look up, 

Panting, with cleaving wing, for freer air. 

Strong in that lofty bearing, as we mount. 

That makes men honor, we've already won 

Half of the prize we strike for. We pass up, 

Like him of Tarsus, to the citadel 

Of the unearthly, when these earthly dreams 

Are flung back to the chaos gend'ring them, 

And the great freedom mantles us that robes 

The immortal captains of th' uncurtain'd climes 

That rose on Revelation ! — I know not 

What braver could have broken on the eye 

Of him who enter'd at the golden gate, 

And walk'd the floor of pearl — and heard the voice 

Of the Archangel's trumpet, than will break 

On him that asks communion with the sky, 

'Mid all the magic of these mysteries 

That meet him on the mountains of the mind — 

High places of the spirit — and the mounts 

And valleys of the earth — alike — when both 

Are sought for in the garb of prayer and praise ! 

There is a Revelation in the flower, 

As there is in the travel of the beam 

That gives it glory ! — You may gaze on one 

With its uncounted perfumes, and read hues, 

Riv'ling its odors — and philosophy 

May faint upon its volume, 'mid that light 



44 



'Twoiild follow to the fountain, peering pale 
Out from the attic prison of its tower ! 
And as you gaze, or swoon with wonder, yet 
There is a solace in th' o'ennastery, 
So it be on you from that presence, wide 
And 'whelming as Eternity, with which 
To interchange is glory — though we die 
In th' interchanging! — ^Neither is this all. 

XLV. 

There is a Revelation in the cell 

Of the o'erladen fly, whose wing cowers not 

Above the loftiest turrets of the hills, 

As there is in the castellated crown 

The architect has lifted from the crags 

In strength and beauty — so we follow there 

The bee or builder, where their genius tells 

Its complicated story to our gaze ! 

XLVI. 

There is a Revelation in these Years. 
We feel it as they travel to their bourne, 
Leaving their various tribute as they pass — 
To-day in dullard lesson to the heart 
That yesterday was flatter'd like a king, 
And shall lie down to-morrow without pride, 
Or even pulse — to tell you what it was ! 
This Revelation is a record, too. 
Made, if we will, or will not^ on the page 
Of this existence, and in characters 
That take a deeper and a bolder line, 
As the blood thickens, and a fainter light 
Plays sentinel within the misty eye ! 
For we see plainer of the heaven or hell 
For which we take departure, as the sense 
Grows sluggish in us, and the future fills 



45 

What was the area of the present^ once, 

In that excluding riot of our days, 

When this to have laughs at the all to come ! 

As we fold round the robes in which we pass 

Out of this scene we darken or adorn, 

Truth lights this Rev^elation of ourselves 

Unto ourselves, until we see the Power 

We had before but heard of — and the chain 

That links us with It, stretches from the sphere 

We cannot fathom, with the clearness then 

Of some hand-writing on the fading wall, 

Alike to the Belshazzars of this earth. 

And the mean slave that dies in solitude ! 

If this be Revelation, such as he 

Beheld who wrote of it, to summon Man 

On to the land he enter'd — then 'tis ours 

To joy in it with shoutings ! It is ours, 

As in great duty, to give greater praise 

That such a veil is lifted on our years, 

Ere yet we call their numbers — that we see 

In childhood we may grasp divinity 

And from our cradles whisper with our God ! 

XLVII. 

There are strong men who think that to be great 

As the world renders it, is but to win 

The places of its greatness — and its pomp — 

Those stations that aspire like monuments 

Out of this level of humanity, 

To which, at last, they bend them, with the grass. 

They dream that circumstance, and shouts, and crowns, 

Illustrate best that royalty 'tis best 

To toil for, to the draining of the blood 

And sacrifice of all that gives it course 

And healthiness along its channels ! All 

That may upbear them where the lights die not 

That 'lume the pathway and the palaces ! 



46 



XLVIII. 



■J 



What is it to be great? How vain to ask, 
With the eye fix'd on earth, while busy man 
Sweeps the broad surface, 'mid its ocean noise ! 
Come hither, under the deep night, and stand 
Upon this tower, when the wide city sleeps, 
And a vast stillness broods upon the air ; 
Then look above, where the bright band of stars 
Treads to its noble music, and the moon 
Rides on its silent wheel the unfathom'd sky — 
Look at the mighty sea — and hear the voice, 
The same it uttered when the world was made, 
And the great waters from the hand of God 
Were pour'd into its deeps. 

These are the works 
That tell you what is Greatness — and oppress 
The spirit, as it reads it — these the lines 
That fade not, written on the wave and sky, 
In characters of liffht ineffable ! 



'&' 



And who is Great ? Alas — the teeming earth 
Has seen but One. The lowly Bethlehem 
Shadow 'd his infant brow — the manger, there, 
Pillow'd his infant head. Yet who, like Him, 
Has come from palaces, and walk'd the land, 
With such a crown upon his golden hair ? 
Is Greatness from the glory of our sires ? 
Or the emblazon'd page of heraldry — 
His Father was the God all the earth ; 
His generation from Eternity ! 
Is it from Life — or life's great deeds, that stir 
The heart to admiration — prayers — and tears ? 
His was a Life devoted to the world — 
A Life that battled with eternal Death. 
Is it from Glory ? His was that of good — 



47 

Not marshalPd by the clarion and the trump, 

But by the silent Gratitude of Earth. 

Is it from Eloquence ? His wondrous lips 

Stirr'd the great elements — and mount and sea 

Trembled before his words — and wind and storm 

Sank at that magic utterance — " Be stilV^ 

He spake — and thrones before his startling voice, 

And kings who fill'd them, in their robes and crowns, 

Shook like an aspen in the coming storm. 

Is it from Power ? His sceptre was o'er all. 

And the wide world bow'd to his lifted hand. 

Is it from lofty Love — that love for Man, 

That dares the tempest of a madden'd earth — 

The malediction of the human heart, 

For which it bows it to the sepulchre ? 

His was the great philanthropy of God ! 

Alone He trod the wine-press— and alone, 

In red Gethsemane He bow'd and bled 

Great drops of agony — and cleans'd the world ! 

Then go — Earth knows no Greatness but the Soul's ; 
No Great one but the Good ; and when ye ask 
Who bore the noblest front of royalty, 
And who the noblest crown — I tell you He, 
Whose brow was first unveil'd in Bethlehem, 
And veil'd at last, in thorns, on Calvary ! 

XLIX. 

Yet are there men who tell you to be great, 

Is to be echoed so from land to land — 

To sweep them with loud armies — or to lead 

Trains of whole empires in idolatry. 

To be alone, from very solitude 

Born of that very worship — pray'd for, once. 

But now endur'd — the loneliness of power ! 

Yet such are strong men — as the world writes strength 



48 

On brows of thousands it has set on thrones, 
And will still set them, while the better helm 
That Christian blazon'd through his Pilgrim fields, 
Is held so lesser than the coronet 
Of idols and red conquerors. His was strength, 
And his the greatness of an heir to realms, 
Where Virtue is the sun that centres them. 
And Angels are the pinion'd messengers ! 

L. 

But mine may seem an idle spirit tale, 

Busied but with the shadows of the Mind, 

Nor ever startling with the histories 

Of things mysterious, but palpable. 

With which we pass the mirror of the world ! 

So would I have it. There are tales of Men 

That cannot make them better — and but dark 

The roadside and the distance of their days. 

They teach them nothing of the phantasy 

They picture out, and follow — nor give line 

Of the immortal part they caji so fill 

As to hold ages silent with the awe 

That spirit feels for spirit. — I would have 

Mind seen, and not events. Its making-known — 

Not what it intakes, to fill the sickly page 

Of readers who should walk but hospitals. 

And live, as they will die, in weary cells. 

What is the lesson that we give these wings 

To fiit the earth with, or to pass to tombs 

That shadow'd their expansion ! It is writ 

In language that shall dim our memories 

When we have gone to judgment with the things 

We thought to make the creatures we despis'd 

By our earth-born philosophy — by tales 

That have no scenery beyond the clouds. 

And know no future that is not to-day ! 



49 



LI. 



So let mine he that shaded history 
Of Mind, as something fashion'd for far spheres, 
Which this but stands the type to. I can feel 
I am a better claimant to great crowns 
And the strong welcomings that wait the brave, 
While I can hear this witness from within, 
That I have led one upward by my strain, 
Or pointed on my pathway, through my song. 
Than if I had come in with victories 
O'ershad'wing me like garlands — and with ranks 
And troops about me, giving me to praise, 
As men do conquerors, when they return 
With their swords wet, to tell their battle tales. 

LII. 

A sound went upward upon startled ears, 
Like music of some mighty instrument, 
Of that commanding and great harmony 
That takes the spirit captive. From the sky, 
A voice broke o'er the mountain and the vale, 
And rushing river with its castled crag. 
Telling, as though a prophet's stirring trump, 
That the Mid Sea, which lash'd the Holy Shore, 
Should to its grave go back* — and a great path 
Open for chariots o'er its vanish'd tides — 
The jewels of the ocean, from their caves. 
Flash to a wond'ring world — and the vast deep 
Bare its unnumber'd mysteries to man ! 
A nation woke. Along the shadowy Rhine, 

* In the year 1212, as we learn from an Italian antiquary, a general belief 
prevailed in Germany, that the Mediterranean Sea was to be dried up, that 
believers might pass to Jerusalem on foot. Italy was crowded with thou- 
sands of German pilgrims. — Walpole. 

7 



50 

As though another ' Star' upon the air, 

With its unmaster'd glory, had come forth, 

Men startled as from slumber — and away 

They gather'd to the Capitol — and Rome 

Grew dark with pilgrims — and all Italy 

Was crowded with believers — and they stood, 

Pressing the classic shores — with rounding eyes, 

Gazing upon the quivering expanse, 

With its unalter'd blue — and the dull dirge 

Of its unshrinking waters. Still they gaz'd. 

With that sad fixedness of spirits bow'd. 

Which reft hearts only token. Still away 

To the lost Land — the sainted Sepulchre — 

They gaz'd, with eyes though tearless, yet how full ! 

They gaz'd — but the sea fell not — not a wave 

Sunk from its royalty — but on, and far. 

Deep calling unto deep, it swung and swept, 

Unrein'd, from shore to shore ? 

LIII. 

And such was Faith 
When men stood round its altars, as if Death 
Master'd the Life within them. Such was Faith, 
When Knowledge was as Darkness — and the stars 
Were reckon'd to hold nightly courtesy 
With Men whose souls were graceless as their beards. 
Was this the Faith that should move mountains ! This 
That confidence in Him that pil'd them there 
Against the sky and clouds, which spurns them both. 
When Earth compares with Heaven ! — Yet who shall tell 
Of the "dark ages," when men walk'd in cowls, 
And grop'd the earth with lanterns ! Who shall tell 
When the day-star came up — and prophecy 
Turn'd to tread backward — craven, to its cell ! 
Who shall make rightly record of that time, 



51 

And point it to his children, as white years 

Were mark'd by Roman fathers ! Who shall tell 

When Man began his freedom — and gave wing 

Into that subtler element, where chains 

Find nothing they may link with or corrode. 

There are still prophets — and the preacher yet 

May rave of withering waters — and old deeps, 

Bar'd to their black foundations — and gold roofs 

Of a new tower'd Jerusalem. There are still 

How many bosoms bursting with the song 

Of Miracle, that not the melody 

Of all the harping Psalms could touch to praise ! 

How many that will clutch the pilgrim staff. 

But curse the withering barrens of the way ! 

How many who pass misery in scorn. 

Yet give their last hosannas to a dream ! 

How many, whose loud faith would spurn their graves. 

Who yet, unsprinkled, would not dare to die ! 

LIV. 

But the night gathers — and my damping string 

Is passing from its tension, and its tune. 

The chords well weary on upbraiding ears, 

And the harp wails for silence, and repose. 

And they shall come. For 'tis as these years 

Feel Life's departing Music — so my song, 

Fall'n from the melody that stirr'd its founts. 

Feels it grow fainter. Yet I would not change 

The cadence for the chorus. And though young, 

Yet have I heard such voices on my way. 

As I would not exchange for revelry 

Of fairy music — though those voices seem'd 

Born of the black- wing 'd choir of dissonance — 

The stricken sisters of a pallid band. 

To whom there's punishment in harmony. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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016 165 391 3. 

The cadence of those tones has sorrow'd me — 

But never wearied. — It has taught me more 

By the chromatic mourning of its fall, 

Than I had gather'd from an age of sound, 

Tearing its way triumphant, in the swell 

Of a constructed chorus ! — It has taught 

That Man must come to silence — though the storm 

Of a world's worship have been round his head 

Since it could bear a crown. And that his years 

Are but the pages in a calendar, 

He fills, himself, with wonder or with shame. 



K21 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



016 165 391 3 



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